by John Grisham
lawyer.
He pulls a small phone out of his shirt pocket and holds it up for me to see. He says, “Know one thing, Rudd. If I see a cop, smell a cop, or hear a cop, all I do is push this button on this phone, and somewhere, far away, bad things happen. You understand?”
“Got it. Now, where, Arch? That’s the first thing. Where, when, how? You have the money; now you owe us the story. Where is the girl and how do we get her?”
He drains the first can, smacks his lips, reloads another mouthful of chips, and for a few miles it seems as though he has gone mute. Then he opens another beer. At the intersection, he says, “Go south.”
Traffic in the northbound lane is busy as the early commuters head for the City. The southbound, though, is practically deserted. I look at him and want to slap the smirk off his face. “Arch?”
He takes another drink and sits taller. “They’ve taken the girls from Chicago to Atlanta. They move around a lot, every four or five months. They’ll work a town pretty hard, but then after a while people start talking, the cops start sniffing around, and so they disappear, set up shop somewhere else. It’s hard to keep secrets when you’re offering pretty young women at good prices.”
“If you say so. Is Jiliana Kemp still alive?”
“Oh yes. Very much so. She’s quite active, not like she has a choice.”
“And she’s in Atlanta?”
“The Atlanta area.”
“It’s a big city, Arch, and we don’t have time to play games. If you have an address, then give it to me. That’s the deal.”
He takes a deep breath and another long drink. “They’re in a big strip mall where there’s traffic, lots of cars and people come and go. Atlas Physical Therapy is the name of the company, but it’s nothing but an upper-end brothel. No number in the phone book. Therapists on call. Appointments only, no walk-ins. Every customer has to be referred by another customer, and they—the head therapists—know who they’re dealing with. So if you’re a customer, you park in the lot, maybe step into the Baskin-Robbins for an ice cream, stroll along the sidewalk, then duck into Atlas. A guy wearing a white lab coat says hello and acts real nice, but under the coat is a loaded piece. He pretends to be a therapist, and he does in fact know a lot about broken bones. He takes your money, say $300 cash, and leads you back to some rooms. He points to one, you walk in, and there’s a small bed and a girl who’s young and pretty and almost naked. You get twenty minutes with her. You leave through another door and no one knows you’ve had your therapy. The girls work all afternoon—they get the mornings off because they’re up late—then they load ’em up and take ’em to the strip clubs where they dance and do their routines. At midnight, they take ’em home, to a fairly nice apartment complex where they’re locked down for the night.”
“Who is they?”
“They are the traffickers, some extremely nasty guys. A gang, a ring, a cartel, a disciplined band of criminals, most with ties to eastern Europe, but some local boys as well. They abuse the girls, keep them terrified and confused and hooked on heroin. Most people in this country don’t believe there’s sex trafficking in their cities, but it’s there. It’s everywhere. They, the traffickers, prey on runaways, homeless kids, girls from bad families looking for escape. It’s a sick business, Rudd. Really sick.”
I start to rebuke him and curse him, remind him of his rather important role in a business he seems to detest, but it would serve no purpose. Instead, I go along with him. “How many girls now?”
“It’s hard to say. They split ’em up, move ’em around. A few have disappeared for good.”
I don’t really want to pursue this. Only a creep involved in the business would know so much about it.
He points and says, “Turn around at this exit and go back north.”
“Where are we going, Arch?”
“I’ll show you. Just hang on.”
“Okay. Now about that address.”
“Here’s what I would do if I were the cops,” he says with a sudden voice of authority. “I’d watch the place, Atlas, and I’d nab a john when he comes out, fresh from therapy. He’s probably a local insurance agent who’s not getting any at home and he’s taken a shine to one of the girls—you can actually ask for your favorite but the request is nonbinding; they got their rules—or maybe he’s a local ambulance chaser like you, Rudd, just another sleazy lawyer who’s hitting on everything but not scoring much, and for three hundred bucks he gets his therapy.”
“Anyway.”
“Anyway, they grab the guy, scare the living shit out of him, and within minutes he’s singing like a choirboy. He tells them everything, especially the layout of the interior. They make him cry, then let him go. They, the cops, already have a warrant. They surround the place with one of those SWAT squads, and it goes down beautifully. The girls are rescued. The traffickers are caught red-handed, and if the cops do it right they can flip one of them instantly. If he sings, he’ll implicate the entire ring. There could be hundreds of girls and dozens of goons. Could be huge, Rudd, all because of you and me.”
“Yeah, we’re a real team, Swanger.”
I take the exit ramp, cross over the interstate, and reenter it headed north. All the eyes watching my van must be wondering what the hell. My passenger pops another top, his third. The chips are gone and I’m sure there are crumbs left behind. I push it to seventy miles an hour and say, “The address, Arch.”
“It’s in the suburb of Vista View, about ten miles due west of downtown Atlanta. The strip mall is called West Ivy. Atlas Physical Therapy is next door to Sunny Boy Cleaners. The girls will get there around 1:00 p.m.”
“And Jiliana Kemp is one of them?”
“I’ve already answered that, Rudd. You think I’d tell you all this if she wasn’t there. But the cops better go in quick. These people can roll up and move in a matter of minutes.”
I have what I want, so I go quiet. For some reason I say, “Can I have a beer?” For a second he looks irritated, as if he needs all six himself, but then he smiles and hands one over.
16.
A few miles down the road, and after a long, pleasant stretch of silence, Swanger nods and says, “There it is. Dr. Woo and his billboard for vasectomy reversals. Brings back memories, right, Rudd?”
“I spent a long night there, watching them dig. Why’d you do that, Arch?”
“Why do I do anything, Rudd? Why did I grab that girl? And mistreat her? And sell her? She’s not the first, you know?”
“I really don’t care at this point. I just hope she’s the last.”
He shakes his head and says with some sadness, “No way. Pull over here on the shoulder.”
I hit the brakes and the van rolls to a stop under the bright lights from Dr. Woo. Swanger grabs the sackful of money, leaves the beer behind, and yanks the door handle. He says, “Tell those dumb-ass cops they’ll never find me.” He jumps out, slams the door, and bounces down the shoulder into some tall grass, over a fence, and under the billboard. The last image is Swanger ducking low between the thick posts, scrambling fast, and making tracks, then disappearing into the tall corn.
To be safe, I drive half a mile down the interstate, pull off again, and call the cops. They’ve listened to every word spoken in the van for the past hour, so there’s little for me to say. I do stress that it would be a mistake to try and corner Swanger until the raid takes place in Atlanta. They seem to agree. I see no activity in and around the cornfield by the billboard.
As I’m driving back to the City, my cell phone buzzes. Max Mancini. I say, “Good morning.”
“I just spoke with Judge Fabineau. Seems as if she’s been stricken with severe food poisoning. No court today.”
“Gee, that’s awful.”
“I knew you’d be disappointed. Get some sleep and we’ll talk later.”
“Okay. Am I supposed to check in with you?”
“Yes. And, Rudd, nice work.”
“We’ll see.”
I pic
k up Partner at his apartment and we settle in for a long breakfast at a waffle place. I recount the adventures of the past seven hours, and he, typically, listens without a word. I need to lie down and try to sleep, but I’m too wired. I try to kill time around the courthouse, but I’m so preoccupied with the raid in Atlanta I can think of nothing else.
Normally, I would be frantically preparing for Tadeo’s trial, but now I doubt it will take place. I’ve kept my end of the bargain, and regardless of what happens to Jiliana Kemp, we should have a deal. A nice little plea bargain that will allow my client to fight again, and soon. But I trust no one I’m dealing with at the moment. If the raid produces nothing, it would not be a surprise if the mayor, Max Mancini, Moss Korgan, Go Slow Fabineau, and the police brass all get together in a room and decide, “Screw Rudd and his client! Let’s go to trial.”
17.
By 2:00 p.m. eastern time the parking lot of the West Ivy Shopping Center is crawling with federal agents, all dressed in a wide variety of casual garb and driving nondescript vehicles. Those with more substantial weapons are hiding in unmarked vans.
The unlucky john is a forty-one-year-old car salesman named Ben Brown. Husband, father of four, nice home not far away. After therapy, he leaves Atlas through an unmarked door, makes it to his vehicle, a demo, and is allowed to drive half a mile before being pulled over by a local cop. Ben’s first words are to the effect that he damned well wasn’t speeding, but when a black SUV wheels to a stop in front of him he suspects deeper trouble. He is introduced to two FBI agents and led to the rear seat of their vehicle. He is placed under arrest for soliciting prostitution and told he will probably be indicted for all manner of federal offenses at a later date. Atlas, he is informed, is part of an interstate sex ring; thus the federal charges. Ben’s life flashes before his eyes and he’s barely able to hold back tears. He tells the agents he has a wife and four kids. They are not sympathetic. He’s facing years in jail.
The agents, however, are willing to deal. If he tells them everything, they will allow him to hop in his car and drive away, a free man. On the one hand, something tells Ben to clam up and demand an attorney. On the other, he wants to trust them and save his skin.
He starts talking. This is his fourth or fifth visit to Atlas. He usually had a different girl; that’s what he likes about the place, the variety. Three hundred bucks a pop. No paperwork, of course not. He was recommended by a friend at the car dealership. Everything is kept very quiet. Yes, he has vouched for two other buddies. Recommendations are required; security seems tight; confidentiality ensured. Inside, there is a small reception area where he always meets the same man, Travis, who wears a white lab coat, tries to look the part. Through a door there are six to eight rooms, all about the same—small bed, small chair, naked girl. Things go quick. It’s sort of like a drive-through sex shop, in and out, unlike one time in Vegas where the girl hung around and they ate chocolates and drank champagne.
No smiles from the FBI. “Any other men there?”
Yes, maybe, seems like there was one other guy one time. Everything’s real clean and efficient, except the walls are pretty thin and it’s not unusual to hear some rather graphic sounds from other therapy sessions. The girls? Well, of course there is a Tiffany and a Brittany and an Amber, but who knows what the real names are.
Ben is told to go and sin no more. He speeds away, eager to run tell his buddies to stay away from Atlas.
The raid happens moments later. With all doors blocked by heavily armed agents, there is no time to even think about resistance or escape. Three men are handcuffed and hauled away. Six girls, including Jiliana Kemp, are rescued and taken into protective custody. Just before 3:00 p.m., she calls her parents, sobbing hysterically. She had been abducted thirteen months earlier. And, she had given birth in captivity. She has no idea what happened to her baby.
Under enormous pressure, one of the three men, an American, takes the bait and starts singing. Names pour forth, then addresses, then everything else he can think of. As the hours pass, the web grows rapidly. FBI offices in a dozen cities put everything else on hold.
One of Mayor Woody’s banker buddies has a corporate jet and the guy is eager to send it. By 7:00 p.m. on a day when she would normally be ending another nightmare at Atlas and preparing for a night of stripping and table dancing, Jiliana Kemp is suddenly flying home. A flight attendant takes care of her and will later say she cried all the way.
18.
Once again, Arch Swanger slips through the net. There is no sign of him after he disappears into the cornfield. The police think they could have caught him then and there, but since they were ordered to wait until after the raid, they somehow lost him. It’s apparent that he has an accomplice. From the point where I picked him up at the stop sign in Jobes, it’s about forty miles to Dr. Woo’s sign beside the interstate. Someone had to be driving a getaway car.
I doubt I’ve heard the last of him.
19.
After dark, Partner and I drive to the jail to deliver the great news to Tadeo. He is being offered the deal of all deals—a light sentence, an easier prison, a guarantee of early parole for good behavior. With some luck, he’ll be back in the ring in two years, his career bolstered by the ex-con aura and that famous YouTube video. I have to admit I’m getting excited thinking about his comeback.
With great satisfaction, I lay it all on the table. Or most of it. I spare him the details of the Swanger adventure, and instead place emphasis on my prowess as a negotiator and much-feared trial lawyer.
Tadeo is not impressed. He says no. No!
I attempt to explain that he cannot simply say no. He’s facing a decade or more in a tough prison, and now I’m delivering a deal so fantastic that the presiding judge can’t believe it. Wake up, man! No.
I am stunned, incredulous.
He sits with his arms crossed over his chest, such an arrogant little punk, and says no over and over. No deal. He will not plead guilty under any circumstances. He has seen his jurors, and, after a few doubts, he is once again confident they will not convict him. He will insist on taking the stand and telling his side of the story. He is cocky, hardheaded, and irritated by my desire to see him plead guilty. I keep my cool and go back to the basics—the charges, the evidence, the video, the shakiness of our expert testimony, the composition of the jury, the bloodbath that awaits him on cross-examination, the likelihood of ten or more years in prison, everything. Nothing registers. He’s an innocent man who sort of accidentally killed a referee with nothing but his hands, and he can explain it all to the jury. He’ll walk out a free man, and when he does, well, then it’ll be payback time. He’ll find a new manager and a new lawyer. He accuses me of being disloyal. This makes me angry and I tell him he’s being stupid. I ask him whom he’s listening to back there in the cell block. Things go from bad to worse, and after an hour I storm out of the room.
I thought I might sleep tonight, but it looks like I’ll go through the usual pretrial insomnia.
20.
At 5:00 on Thursday morning, I’m drinking strong coffee and reading the Chronicle online. It’s all about the rescue of Jiliana Kemp. The largest photo on page one is just what I envisioned: Mayor Woody at the podium in all his glory, with Roy Kemp beside him, a wall of blue behind them. Jiliana is not in the photo, though there is a slightly smaller one of her getting off the jet at the airport. Baseball cap, big sunglasses, collar turned up, you can’t tell much but she looks reasonably good. She is resting at home with her family and friends, it says. The sex-trafficking story runs for pages, and the FBI operation is obviously still in progress. Arrests are being made across the country. So far, about twenty-five girls have been rescued. There was a shooting in Denver but no serious injuries.
Thankfully, there’s not a word about Jiliana’s heroin addiction, or about the lost baby. One nightmare is over; others continue. I suppose I should take some measure of quiet satisfaction in having had a hand in this, but I don’t. I bartered in
formation to benefit a client. That’s all. Now that client has gone stupid and I get nothing out of the deal.
I wait until 7:00 a.m. to send a text message to both Max Mancini and Judge Fabineau. It reads, “After extensive discussions, my client refuses to accept the plea agreement now being offered by the prosecution. I have strongly advised him to accept it, to no avail. It appears as though the trial must go on, pending the health of the judge. Sorry. SR.”
Mancini responds, “Let’s tee it up. See u soon.” He, of course, is thrilled because he’s back on center stage. Evidently, Judge Fabineau has made a quick recovery. She texts, “Ok, the show must go on. We’ll meet in chambers at 8:30. I’ll inform my bailiff.”
21.
